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It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.

Willa Cather

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Willa Cather
Age: 73 †
Born: 1873
Born: December 7
Died: 1947
Died: April 24
Author
Biographer
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Willa Sibert Cather
Cremated
Gave
Youth

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Miracles surround us at every turn if we but sharpen our perceptions of them.
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A burnt dog dreads the fire.
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I don't want anyone reading my writing to think about style. I just want them to be in the story.
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That is happiness to be dissolved into something complete and great.
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One summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary were dining together in the gardens of a villa in the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome.
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Happy people do a great deal for their friends.
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Most publishers, like most writers, are ruined by their successes.
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Merely having seen the season change in a country gave one the sense of having been there for a long time.
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The summer moon hung full in the sky. For the time being it was the great fact of the world.
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Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness.
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There is often a good deal of the child left in people who have had to grow up too soon.
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A man long accustomed to admire his wife in general, seldom pauses to admire her in a particular gown or attitude, unless his attention is directed to her by the appreciative gaze of another man.
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Thea was still under the belief that public opinion could be placated that if you clucked often enough, the hens would mistake you for one of themselves.
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Hunger is a powerful incentive to introspection.
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Dr. Howard Archie had just come up from a game of pool with the Jewish clothier and two traveling men who happened to be staying overnight in Moonstone.
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Today I stood taller from walking among the trees.
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Sometimes, I ventured, it doesn't occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty. . . I couldn't stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there's nobody like her.
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When kindness has left people, even for a few moments, we become afraid of them, as if their reason had left them.
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Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones. They begin to tell you what's sensible and what's foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody.
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Nothing mattered ... but writing books, and living the kind of life that made it possible to write them.
Willa Cather